


Why John Watson Hates Doors

by BenedictsBlueWaterbottle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Angst, Begging, Beta Needed, Beta Wanted, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Guilty John, Jealous John, John is mad, Lots of it, Loud Sex, M/M, Pining, Sex, Smut, Someone help, THERE WILL BE ANOTHER VERSION, THIS FIC IS ABANDONED NOT FINISHED, Victor Trevor Being Nice, Vocal Sherlock, Voyeur!John, Voyeurism, but also turned on, please im desperate for a beta reader, porn with a bit of plot, top victor trevor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-04-05 15:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14046981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenedictsBlueWaterbottle/pseuds/BenedictsBlueWaterbottle
Summary: John gets stuck in the bathroom, Sherlock comes home with a handsome man, and the door stands between them all.





	1. Mr. Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic- EVER (a.k.a- the first time I've given a shot at writing any juicy smut.) so I'd accept any constructive criticism with open arms.  
> Not beta read  
> Not britpicked

“Sherlock!” John called out, tiredly lugging his legs up the creaking stairs and into the sitting room of 221B.

He looked around and found no consulting detective brooding on the sofa or his leather chair.

“Sherlock?” He called again.

No answer.

He better not be dissolving thumbs on the kitchen table again. John hung his coat and peered into the kitchen- empty.

Thank god. At least the kitchen table was spared for now, so was John; he was in no mood to be dealing with Sherlock today. He’d had a particularly demanding shift at the clinic and was running on fairly little sleep, what with the new case and Sherlock demanding that they stakeout the suspected scene of the next murder throughout the night. Sarah, ever the saint, had granted him the opportunity to head home early. John would have been an absolute idiot to decline such a generous offer and took off like a bullet. 

Within the comforting embrace of 221B's tacky plastered walls, John pondered Sherlock’s whereabouts for only a second before shrugging it off and concluding that he needed a nice warm shower and a steaming cuppa. A sit-down right about now would do him some good.

 

.oOo.

 

John sighed as the cold water washed away the last traces of shampoo from his hair, watching the white suds swirl down the drain before turning the water off and stepping out to grab a towel. Damn Sherlock for using up all the hot water.

During his shower he thought about Sherlock’s strange behaviour as of late. He wasn’t leaving messes on the kitchen counter, he’d gone out and bought milk for John- _not_ for an experiment, he’d actually been decent towards Mycroft the other day.

It was starting to unsettle John. Just a bit.

But altogether Sherlock seemed much more… happy. So John really shouldn’t complain, should he?

He towelled his hair dry and wrapped it loosely around his hips, then reached out to open the door, only to find it jammed- _again._

Damn Sherlock and his bloody experiment on corrosive metals.

God, John _really_ didn’t want to have to go out through Sherlock’s bedroom. Because of _course_ he didn’t experiment on the bathroom door that connected to his room.

_Far too inconvenient, John._

John tried to jerk the door-handle once more, twice, then proceeded to ram his good shoulder into the door in a desperate attempt.

“Come on…” He huffed.

Sod it.

He was going through Sherlock’s door. The berk wasn’t home anyway.

John had a firm grip on the old door-handle and was about to turn it when he heard the door to the flat burst open, followed by an abrupt slam as it closed. Oh good… Sherlock was home. John could picture him, sweeping into the flat, a whirlwind of energy with the tails of his greatcoat fluttering behind him as he looked around frantically, deducing everything by second nature with those crystalline pale blue eyes and shooting his sharp glare at John. Then he’d tilt his head of glossy mahogany curls that John wanted to run his fingers through and tug and just-

No.

Nope. Absolutely not. That train of thought definitely did not just happen. The important thing was that Sherlock was home and he could open the bathroom door for John. Yes. Simple. Just call him. John took a deep breath, which hitched when he heard a quiet moan.

What? He frowned. Shook his head. Did he really just hear what he thought he heard?

Carefully, John placed his ear on the second bathroom door, closer to the sitting room- he waited with furrowed brows and squinted eyes. It was quiet for a beat. Nothing. Then-

“Oh God-“a faint, choked sound. The sound that would come from someone weak at the knees. And by God if John Three Continents Watson didn’t know that sound like the back of his hand. The biggest shock, the one that sent John reeling back in surprise and blinking at the door, was the fact that it came from Sherlock. It could only be Sherlock. John was familiar enough with Sherlock’s sensual baritone to be certain.

But this sent a whole bombard of questions into his head. Who was doing this to Sherlock? Is he Sherlock’s boyfriend? Mr. ‘Married-to-my-work’ has a boyfriend??? How did he not notice? What should he do? How was he supposed to get out of the bathroom now that Sherlock was occupied?

It’s okay, just knock on the door and ask Sherlock to open it and go upstairs. Go out, have a pint with Greg or Mike and come back later.

A loud groan and a thump sounded right outside the bathroom door. They were in the kitchen now. Bloody fantastic. Perfect.

Although, this could mean it would be easier for Sherlock to hear him. It’s all fine. Completely and utterly-

“OH _CHRIST_!”

Or maybe John could just wait it out in the bathroom. Who knows what kind of state they’re in now. Judging by the sounds Sherlock and his friend are making, they’re pretty far gone.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Today really wasn’t his day.

And of course things had to get worse because the door John had his face pressed up against earlier shook on its hinges when someone was slammed against it. Hell, now John hoped the door _wouldn’t_ open.

The wet sound of kissing could be heard from behind the door, laced with soft moans and desperate panting. “Wrap your legs around me… Yea like that,” a breathy, rushed out phrase from who could only be Sherlock’s _boyfriend_. Definitely a man. And boy, did that sentence give John an image:

Sherlock, back pressed against the door with his legs hitched around this mystery man’s waist, their hipbones pressed together as they breathe each other’s air and Sherlock tilts his head back, baring that divine column of a throat for the other man to just  _devour_.

“Yes!”

 _God._ John had to clamp his palm over his mouth to keep quiet. He didn’t expect Sherlock to be so vocal.

To think that Sherlock was in such a state just outside the door- Christ it did unspeakable things to John’s imagination. He pressed a palm against the door. The only thing standing in the way between him touching Sherlock. Not for the first time that day, John found himself hating doors.

The moans grew in volume and whispered words turned into muffled groans. “Bedroom.” John heard Sherlock say, “Now.” This was followed by urgent footsteps and the violent shuffling of, what John assumed to be, them undressing.

John heard the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open and he quickly stumbled to the bathroom door connected to said room. He had absolutely no idea why. He found himself unable to resist pressing his ear to the door- hard.

“God, you’re gorgeous-” damn right he is, “come here, love.”

John felt a prickle of something which wasn’t jealousy at all. Not even close. He didn’t feel like busting the door open, yanking the other man away from Sherlock and bashing his face into the wall. Not at all.

He heard the bed creak as Sherlock climbed onto it. John wondered if he was completely naked. God… just the thought of Sherlock’s naked body… all that smooth alabaster skin and those sharp, artistically sculpted curves. That neck… Those slender hips and long, _long_ fingers. He felt his cock twitch at the picture of Sherlock’s creamy, firm thighs and irresistibly plush arse against the expensive cotton sheets of his bed. Another creak. Mystery man must have climbed on.

“Oh, look at you.” He said, marvelling, “So needy.”

A whimper. A God damned whimper. This man had reduced _The_ Sherlock Holmes to a whimpering, “needy” mess just outside this damned plank of wood. John wanted to see this. Really, _really_ badly.

The low growl turned into a whispered: “So desperate for my cock.”

Sherlock moaned.

John’s mind conjured a flash of lush, Cupid’s bow lips parted wide. Sherlock reaching for his lover with a helpless gleam in his half-lidded eyes- begging.

“Please…” He heard Sherlock breathe.

And Sweet Jesus it was John’s undoing. He felt his knees tremble slightly. If only Sherlock knew what effect he had on John.

“Please what, Sherlock?” The lover teased.

“ _Please-_ ” Good Lord…

Then Sherlock released a stream of blissful little moans and John can only guess that Mr. Mystery had slipped some fingers up Sherlock’s arse. John shuddered, imagining the heat of Sherlock’s tight hole. He stuck two fingers in his mouth, a fickle attempt to mimic the sensation.

The sounds grew in volume and frequency, curses were thrown in. John’s ears burned.

“Fuuuu… Please Vic, please!” a sharp gasp, “ _PLEASE!_ ”

John never even thought he’d ever heard Sherlock say please once in all the years he’s been living with him and yet, here he was; shouting it at the top of his lungs over and over again as if it was the only fucking word he knew.

But John didn’t miss the clue of Mr. Mystery’s name. Some guy named ‘Vic.’

He must have gorgeously defined features and money and was probably taller than Sherlock was. Much taller than John. He probably had longer fingers too. John bet he worked as some kind of hyper intelligent agent at MI6. Or was the type of guy who won the Nobel Prize for _existing_. The type of guy who made the world swoon with a perfect, blindingly bright smile. Someone who was in Sherlock’s league. Someone worthy. Someone-

“Please what?”

And John could have sworn on his gran’s life that Sherlock had just sobbed.

“Victor!” He whined.

Of bloody fucking course he’d have a posh name like ‘Victor.’

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock.” Victor growled.

“I-I… I want-” Sherlock’s voice trembled, high pitched. John bit his lip and pressed the palm of his hand against his aching member.

“Yes…?”

Sherlock stammered some more before he whispered something John couldn’t quite catch through the door. Damn. He pressed his face harder onto it, strained to hear Sherlock fall apart under another man’s hands. It hurt, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t better than nothing.

“What was that?” Victor urged smugly.

Sherlock mumbled. Oh hell- come _on._

“What. Do you. Want. Sherlock.”

There was a sharp yelp- a hand on Sherlock’s cock, perhaps? The prostate? John was dying to know- then Sherlock snapped. He lost it.

“FUCK ME!” he roared in frustration, “TAKE ME, VICTOR! GIVE IT TO ME-”

_Christ-_

“I WANT YOUR FAT COCK INSIDE ME- PLEASE! I-I WANT- WANT YOU TO FUCK ME. FUCK ME SO HARD I CAN’T SIT DOWN FOR A WEEK. _GOD_ , VIC-”

John was in shock. His cock throbbed, pushed against his hand with the urgency he didn’t want. He wanted to savour this, God damn it! It’s not every day he gets an opportunity to hear Sherlock go mad with lust. And the _things_ that came out of that mouth, from between those delectable lips. They were _filthy._ Drenched in nothing but pure want, and need and desperation and a shout rang through the flat and the bed was creaking rhythmically and Sherlock’s long groan of immense pleasure was made staccato by deep, quick thrusts and _fuck,_ John had never heard anything so sexy. 

His mind was going foggy and he couldn’t seem to prevent the images in his mind from going wobbly, watery. Bugger this. John dared to place a hand on the doorknob, turn it, and open the door as quietly and discreetly as he could. He peeked through the slight gap with one eye scrunched closed.

And good Lord. The _sight_ he was rewarded with.

Sherlock kneeling on the bed; arms stretched forward with white knuckled hands gripping the headboard for dear life, head hung below his shoulders and jolting forward slightly with every thrust, muscled back curved elegantly to punctuate the luscious curve of his pale arse, knees spread wide with toes curling. He was delicious. His hard cock bobbed and slapped his sculpted stomach as the man behind him ploughed on viciously. John caught himself gaping and silently closed his mouth.

This Victor fellow was alright. He wasn’t bad looking at all. Begrudgingly, John admitted that he found Victor quite handsome. John figured he was actually the type that mothers would love and fathers would take pride in. Boyish charm, trusting eyes, honest smile: the whole goody-goody package. He was slightly darker than Sherlock, a bit tan. As John looked on, he seemed to find a lot of similarities between the two. Victor had caramel curls dusted with gold, long limbs (And yes, John was right about this one: long fingers), full lips, a damn nice arse. John refused to put this stranger on too high of a pedestal. He was, after all, shagging John's best friend.

John reached down between his legs, unfolding the towel and tossing it somewhere. “AH!” Sherlock cried, wriggling and thrusting back against Victor. The amplified slapping of Sherlock’s plush arse against Victor’s hips was _obscene_. Accompanied by the wave of sinful noises that escaped Sherlock’s mouth. John could only guess that Victor had hit Sherlock’s prostate.

He leaned heavily on the doorframe and began to frantically pump at his cock.

“God- Sher-” Victor had his eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowed, hips stuttering, “So good, you gorgeous, wonderful miracle.”

Sherlock panted and moaned, beyond words.

“You’re so tight-“

“Oh,”

“Sherlock-“

“OH!”

“Look at you-“

“VICTOR!”

“So beautiful. So good. You’re my good boy, aren’t you Sherlock?”

Sherlock let out, worryingly, what sounded like a sob, “VIC!!”

“Shhh… I’ve got you.”

Despite the sex rough enough to have moved the bed and rocked the headboard against the wall (quite loudly), Victor’s voice was soft. His hands moved up Sherlock’s thighs and onto his sharp hips. Surprisingly, he pulled out.

John blinked and gripped the base of his cock, holding off his impending orgasm. What?

Sherlock let out a distressed, high-pitched whine and shot a questioning glare over his shoulder at Victor. The other man simply placed a loving kiss on Sherlock’s arsecheek. Sherlock, in turn, blushed a brilliant red and bit his bottom lip. “Come up here, love.” Sherlock looked puzzled, but complied.

Victor flopped down into the mattress, tucked an arm below his head and held his cock up with the other. Sherlock wasted no time; He immediately shifted over to straddle Victor and lowered himself onto his straining cock. John bit his tongue. He could see it happen as if in slow motion. Sherlock’s thighs flexing, back arching as he pulled his arms back by his legs, and as a result: the firm musculature of his chest and stomach were positioned diagonally, beads of sweat running down magnificent pectorals and along the line of his stomach, down to the thatch of dark hair surrounding his leaking cock. It took John’s breath away. He watched, with rapt attention, as Sherlock took in Victor’s length slowly. He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath until he released it when Sherlock finally settled onto Victor’s lap with a groan from both men. John felt a knot form in his stomach and his face went hot, he gripped his cock tighter; not yet, damn it.

Sherlock ground his hips, causing him to throw his head back, curls bouncing, throat bloody _glistening_. John licked his lips. Victor watched Sherlock’s movements through hooded eyes, lashes long and fluttering- the bastard. Then Sherlock lifted himself up, and plunged down with the desperation of a man on the edge. Christ, John would know, he’d been trying not to come for the past twenty minutes. But Sherlock had practically gone animal. He was lost. Fucking himself on Victor’s cock with reckless abandon as though the world were ending within the next thirty seconds. Victor gripped Sherlock’s hips and began to buck up into Sherlock, who lost his balance for a second.

Hands splayed on the sheets above Victor’s shoulders, Sherlock moaned wantonly. The rhythmic slapping of skin and violent bed creaking intensified as Sherlock was audibly teetering on the edge of an explosive orgasm. “Let go, Sherlock,” Victor grumbled sweetly into his lover’s shoulder, “I’ve got you.”

Another devastating sob was pulled from Sherlock’s heaving chest, “Victor…” he whimpered, voice trembling.

Jesus, John’s impulsive urge to push the door open, scoop Sherlock up into his arms and hold him until he stopped crying was almost as strong as his impulsive urge to tug on Victor’s leg and kick the _shit_ out of him. Luckily, common sense stopped him from doing both. He closed his eyes, gave his cock a few more firm strokes that drove him _that_ much closer to release, hearing Sherlock’s moans, trying to drown out Victor’s loving voice. John pictured Sherlock straddling _his_ hips, fucking onto _his_ cock, moaning out _his_ name and letting himself be comforted by _John_ afterwards. He imagined how all that pearly, smooth skin would feel under his palms, under his tongue. How would Sherlock taste? God, he wanted to do _unspeakable_ things to that man. But here he was, confined to watching from behind the goddamned bathroom door as Sherlock bounced on some poncy, posh knobhead.

John growled quietly, scowling, pumping faster; heat was burning his skin from the inside and he could hear them fucking over the sound of the mad rush of blood in his ears. He opened his eyes again. Victor gripped Sherlock’s hips hard enough to bruise and kept whispering those damned _sweet_ words into Sherlock’s ear as he whined.

Then it happened; Sherlock’s body twitched, jerked up, tensed. It was quiet for a few seconds, and suddenly, Sherlock choked out an, “Oh!”

He heaved, then bloody _screamed_. It was an animalistic, raw sound of euphoria which had his gorgeous, _gorgeous_ eyes sealed tight, brows pulled together, and strong, broad shoulders hunched forward.

Explosive, indeed. John clenched his teeth and gripped his cock tighter to simulate Sherlock’s clenching walls before finally- _finally_ spilling all over his hand (and maybe the door).

But of course Victor, ever the gentleman, fucked Sherlock through it. John guessed that Victor had come inside Sherlock already. Because of course they came at the same time. The thrusts slowed. Sherlock grew quiet, slumping on top of Victor before the bugger had a chance to pull out of his arse. Sherlock murmured something in an uncharacteristically small voice. Victor turned his head and placed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s temple, rubbing one hand up and down his back while he ran the incredibly long fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s tangled mop of curls. “Hey…” Victor said, pushing Sherlock’s wet fringe out of his face and smiling sadly. “You okay?”

As much as John would have loved to stay and hear Sherlock’s reply, he felt a slight twinge of guilt tug at his heart. This was an intimate moment; He had no right intruding. Well- one could argue that he’d _just_ witnessed an intimate moment between the two. But sex was different. He shut the door as quietly as he could and picked his towel up off the floor to wipe himself (and the door) up.

He tried his luck with the other door again, knowing full well it wouldn’t budge. The last thing he wanted was for good old Victor to walk into the bathroom for a wet flannel only to find a sweaty and naked John Watson locked in there. _That_ would be awkward. _Hey, sorry- I was locked in the bathroom when you decided to screw my flatmate and I sort of wanked to it, my bad. By the way, could you open this door? Thanks._ Except, when John put his hand on the doorknob and turned, it opened. No resistance. Of fucking course. It was like the door purposely locked him in. But John, not complaining about the easy escape, slipped quickly and quietly out the door, up the stairs and into his bedroom before his existence was made known. He got changed with the efficiency of a soldier and snuck down the stairs, out the front door, into a cab. All within six minutes.

 

.oOo.

 

He called Mike, chugged a couple of pints and hoped to God Victor would be gone by the time he got back to the flat. One look at Mr. Perfect’s face and he couldn’t promise not to start throwing punches. John reminded himself to stop by the hardware store on the way back. Pick up some oil for the fucking door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, okay so that was that.  
> Don't forget to critique!  
> If there is a high enough demand, I guess a second chapter could be whipped up.  
> Leave a kudo or a review for a poor ol'soul like me, won't'cha?


	2. What goes up must come down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a tragic backstory for Sherlock. (Sorry- it's a short one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: endless apologies. Who would've thought that exam stress= writer's block?  
> But thankfully, exams are over and summer has begun. Which hopefully means more updates. Though I still have tons of homework so don't let your hopes float too high.  
> I've had to have rewritten this chapter dozens of times and I'm still not quite happy with it. Essentially, it's just filler (sorry).  
> Second of all: I honestly didn't think this was going to get as much attention as it did so a big, BIG thank you to all you lovely readers for dropping kudos and comments (which sustain my life and encourage me to keep writing). Seriously- thank you.  
> MOVING ON: this chapter kind of took a drastic turn from what I initially planned to publish but I hope you guys like it nonetheless.

“You okay?”

Sherlock sniffled, tilting his head up to meet concerned grey-blue eyes. Victor stroked his hair, smiled softly, and planted a sweet kiss on his clammy forehead before Sherlock nodded. He then nuzzled into the side of Victor’s neck and sighed deeply, letting his eyes fall shut.

Victor swiped his thumbs across Sherlock’s damp cheeks, erasing the glistening lines of moisture.

The silence warmed the air in the room, but by now they’d both come to realise that these silences between them were never awkward or heavy. Sherlock felt the welcome rush of relief slide through his veins, comforted by the very presence of Victor, as he had always been.

Whether the world believed it or not, Sherlock Holmes did, in fact, have a heart. And Victor had held the splintered remnants of it in his hands and, somehow, he managed to warm the pieces enough to mould them back into a semblance of a functional shape. Sherlock had grown to associate Victor with safety, stability; he made Sherlock feel cherished are cared for, as if he deserved it.

Tenderness wasn’t something which he’d expect from the world- he’d learned a long time ago that nobody could ever truly care for someone like him. Though Victor had been the only exception. In all the years of his life, Victor had been the one to prompt wide grins and private giggles, Victor had been Sherlock’s only source of compassion and understanding. Victor had _cared_ about Sherlock.

Then Sherlock had met John. And suddenly it was as if all those years of isolation and hostility had shattered- the piercing taunts and neglect of the past which Victor had soothed to an ache, John had remedied to a mere tingle. It hadn’t mattered anymore- those poisonous opinions of him. All because John had thought he was “ _Brilliant”_ and “ _Fantastic”_ and “ _Extraordinary._ ”

John. His John. John Hamish Watson. The man who singlehandedly managed to destroy any of Sherlock’s firmly set beliefs on a predominantly secluded lifestyle. Sherlock was overcome with the urge to make John stay, to impress him, it verged very close to desperation. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt towards another human being- Victor included. And then John had decided that yes, he did like Sherlock and he chose to integrate himself into his life and it did strange things to Sherlock’s heartbeat. All it took was a few close calls during cases for Sherlock to realise that he _could not_ lose John Watson.

Although, this friendship that had grown between them had soon stirred a different kind of longing within Sherlock. He found himself eager when moments of opportunity arose for John to initiate in physical contact: a simple brush of an elbow or the top of a hand would prompt a stutter from within Sherlock’s chest. He then caught himself staring at John at certain times and snapped back to focus as if his attention were a rubber band. He craved touch from John, he realised, affection and domesticity; Sherlock was puzzled by it, the sudden desire for something he’d been adamant on avoiding for most of his life. John Watson remained an anomaly.

Despite his firm statement of being married to his work on their first meeting, Sherlock noticed that John kept leaving hints, being suggestive; licking his lips, engaging in more frequent casual touches. Sherlock could sometimes _feel_ John’s gaze run up and down his body, it sent a rush of heat up his throat and spilling across his face. But Sherlock was hesitant, he _had_ to be sure. There was a chance that all this was projection- he couldn’t risk it; couldn’t risk losing John.

And so he decided to run some tests: sauntering out of his bedroom wrapped in nothing but a sheet, stepping out of the shower with a towel hung low on his hips, and switching to smaller sized trousers, for instance. John had responded beautifully to each test. His pupils would dilate, he would lick his lips excessively, adjust himself in his seat every now and again, and stealing glances at him when he thought Sherlock wasn’t paying attention.

The signs were all there. John was interested.

Yet any intended advancements were kept at bay with “Not gay”, “I’ve got another date”, and “I’m not his boyfriend.” It stung a bit to see John so averse towards the very suggestion of being in any kind of non-platonic relationship with Sherlock. Especially since Sherlock knew John was attracted to men as well as women. That meant that something about _Sherlock_ specifically was putting John off. Though the results of his experiments had proven otherwise. John did want him, didn’t he? Was it all still Sherlock projecting how he felt?

Sherlock spent years and years giving all that he had to offer in order to maintain their relationship, careful not to overstep the fine line of friendship despite John’s easy presence on the other side tugging painfully at his heartstrings.

Then Sherlock had finally decided: enough. He was tired; tired of entertaining the hopeless longing for someone he had no chance with. If John was happy with his rotating door of women, so be it. His decision may have seemed cowardly, but Sherlock couldn’t ignore the resurfacing reminders from his childhood: Love is a dangerous disadvantage, sentiment is a chemical defect. Trying hurts. What was the point?

Until one night, John had come home from the pub. Sherlock caught a faint whiff of alcohol on him. He seemed to have his head on. Except, John’s smile was different that night. Not friendly- predatory. Hungry. It made Sherlock question everything he’d given up on. Would tonight finally be the night? Sherlock had let his courage simmer as he and John engaged in a slurred, flirtatious conversation. He kept shifting, anxious. If this backfired John would surely leave him. Sherlock would be a constant reminder of John’s failure to maintain the image of “not gay” which he fought so hard for.

And yet…

It would certainly cause a shift in their relationship. Whether the shift would nudge them towards comfortable romance or unbearable platonic hell, Sherlock didn’t know. His mind was whirring, conflicting thoughts and emotions tumbling around his skull, his heartbeat was erratic. Threads of ‘what if’s, ‘do it’s and ‘but’s tangled and knotted in a jumble as his fingers twitched nervously, neck growing hot, should he? Shouldn’t he?

He started listing, comparing all of the possible positive and negative outcomes to make a decision on whether-

And John had kissed him.

Slow and soft.

Warm.

_Hot._

Sherlock was frozen in shock, eyes open, chest heaving. John slid his tongue along the seam of his lips and _oh._ Sherlock opened his mouth to let him in. He would always let John in. He felt heat burst from his chest, running through his veins, filling his lungs until he couldn’t breathe and his mind quieted and all he could do was sit there and think: Finally.

John tugged him onto his lap and licked into Sherlock’s mouth and _God-_ it was beautiful; it was like seeing colour for the first time. The roof of his mouth was tickled by the tip of John’s tongue and Sherlock couldn’t get enough of it. He preened at the attention and shuddered when John’s confident hands cupped his arse cheeks. An epiphany hit Sherlock: he could finally touch John. He was touching John Watson. And John Watson was touching him. The enormity of the relief which slid through his body prompted unshed tears from his eyes. He was so, so glad. His theories were confirmed. John _did_ want him. And he wanted John and after all this time they could _finally_ be together and Sherlock thought his chest could burst.

So they kissed and kissed and tumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, still dressed, without locking the door. They fell into bed, giggling with smiles stretched wide across their faces. The kisses were clumsy, teeth knocking together, breaths heavy. Sherlock had never been happier. John had flipped him over onto his back and slotted his thigh between Sherlock’s. Sherlock groaned when John rubbed his firm thigh against Sherlock’s stiffening cock. Reservations be damned. He could feel John, hard and wanting, against his hip. There was no denying it, their infatuation was painfully apparent.

“John,” Sherlock had gasped, hands clawing at the doctor’s shoulder blades. He wanted John to be closer, he wanted to pull John against him until he couldn’t tell where one body started and the other ended, he wanted to hold John long enough to make the differences in body temperature indiscernible.

As a reply, John grunted once and proceeded to grind himself against Sherlock. The heat between his legs became concentrated, his body felt as though there were ants swarming beneath his skin- in an unsettlingly good way. It was a hot tingle, his blood cells were the iron filings to John Watson’s magnet. He was thrumming- alive. He could feel every minute shift of soft cotton against his suddenly damp cock, the firm press of John’s thigh as they rocked into one another.

It was music. The sensation of John hastily unbuckling Sherlock’s belt, undoing his trousers and yanking them down just low enough for Sherlock’s cock to spring free coaxed a whimper from Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock covered his face, promptly hiding his blush as John sucked on his hipbones.

“No, no, Sherlock.” He’d reprimanded as he’d pulled Sherlock’s hands from his face, “I want to look into those gorgeous eyes.”

 _Christ_ \- Sherlock froze, surprised by the genuine compliment. He had struggled, for a moment, to find a suitable reply, but found that he couldn’t utter anything more than a shaky: “John?”

To which John had grinned and pressed his lips to the side of Sherlock’s throat, sucking, and licking whilst making his way up, along his jaw. “You are the most beautiful man,” he breathed as he mouthed the spot below his ear, “I have ever laid my eyes on.”

Sherlock had moaned openly and tilted his head back, humming in encouragement. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this- you desperate and wanting beneath me.” John licked along the shell of his ear, “God, Sherlock. You’ve no idea what you do to me.”

“Hng-” Sherlock felt warm steel twist into a tight coil inside his stomach, his body at the mercy of John’s ministrations. A hot tongue whispering dirty things into his ears, hips thrusting steadily against his own.

He couldn’t think-

Couldn’t _breathe_.

He bucked up against John and the friction between them made him tense and arch his back. He was close, and he could tell that John was as well; he read it in the way he gripped Sherlock’s hips, fingertips digging into flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

Open mouths crashed together, hot, wet tongues sliding over and under as they thrusted against each other through too many layers of fabric. But he didn’t care. He was with John and it didn’t matter if they were naked or not. This was perfect. John was perfect. Sherlock couldn’t care less whether it wouldn’t be considered amazing to others. To Sherlock, this was the greatest gift John could ever give him. “Please…” he gasped.

“God, Sherlock…”

“John-”

“I know, love. I know.”

They were panting and frantically rutting, muscled thighs and grinding hips and sweat. Sherlock was edged closer to release, cock straining. He could hear John mumbling against his shoulder and tried to quiet his breaths in order to hear. When he did, he froze. His heart stopped for a second. His eyes burned.

In an instant, John had pulled back. Their eyes met, a flash of worry graced John’s deep blue gaze before he rested his forehead on Sherlock’s. He then continued his relentless thrusts- powerful, confident. Sherlock clutched at John’s biceps and scrunched his eyes closed- listening.

Never in his life would Sherlock have thought that three short, monosyllabic words could bestow so much happiness upon a person. Sherlock stifled a sob and repeated it back to John. Of course, forever. He inhaled a lungful of air he never knew he could inhale. A weight was lifted off of his chest. Three words. So liberating. Sherlock realised then and there that John Watson was his oxygen. His life. His heart.

They whispered praises. Confessions. Nails dug into flesh. Hair was pulled. Names were shouted. A shot of heat between his legs. Then-

Bliss.

He hung onto John tight, held him with every inkling of desire he felt throughout the years. John kissed him again. It was so, _so_ perfect. Sherlock had never been happier.

They cuddled for a while before John drifted off to sleep. Sherlock, of course, couldn’t. Especially not after what had just happened. He had far too much to process.

This was real. Did this mean they were… together? Sherlock imagined how their lives would shift now that they were in a relationship while he got John and himself cleaned up.

Surprisingly, he was overcome with a sudden, powerful desire to do something special for John. It was the least he could do, after all. Breakfast. Breakfast was good. Sherlock jotted down a quick note and placed it carefully on the bedside table next to John’s head before leaving to Tesco at three in the morning.

Sherlock had chosen and bought every ingredient precisely. He knew exactly what he was going to make for John: toast, strawberry jam, mushroom omelettes, a few small pork sausages, and John’s favourite tea.

Sherlock grinned.

By the time he’d gotten back to Baker Street, it was quarter to five. And he got started right away, making sure the door to his bedroom was cracked open just a bit. Let in the smell, not the sound. He’d spent hours preparing the perfect breakfast for his flatmate. Partner? Boyfriend?

Unfortunately, John had woken up to the sound a crackling frying pan as Sherlock cooked the sausages. He emerged from the hallway with charming, sleep tousled hair which seemed to _glow_ in the early morning light. Sherlock’s lips curled into a smirk. How endearing. Though he daren’t tell John he was _adorable._ (Even though it certainly was).

“Morning, John.”

“Morning… What’s all this, then?”

“Breakfast. I made breakfast.”

“Huh.”

There was a pause, something in Sherlock’s head insisted that it was an awkward one, but the thought was immediately dismissed. There was nothing awkward about breakfast between lovers, a romantic gesture after all. John should be pleased, it was his sort of thing. Sherlock was pleased with himself; proud of the idea as well as the execution of it. He placed the sausages onto John’s semi-full plate and turned to grab the box of tea bags.

“Thanks for letting me collapse in your bed.” John mumbled. The comment was a bit strange, of course Sherlock wouldn’t mind. Wasn’t it customary to allow the sharing of beds after engaging in coitus? “Of course, John.”

“God knows I was piss drunk.” He laughed.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. What?

“I’d’ve thought you would insist on me sleeping in my own bed.”

What was he on about?

“You’re probably going to have to change your sheets though,”

Sherlock tried not to let his shoulders sag with relief. Alright, he was making sense now. “Mmm…”

“Wouldn’t be nice to have to deal with the smell of alcohol and vomit- probably.”

To say that Sherlock was confused would be an understatement.

“But in all honesty, I would’ve been fine with sleeping on the sofa too.” He laughed again, “Can’t believe I was too drunk for you to get me up the stairs to my room.”

Oh no.

He ignored the slight tremor of his hands.

Sherlock had to confirm this theory before it killed him.

“John,” he placed the kettle on the stove, “what do you remember from last night?”

Control. He tried to keep his voice even, his breathing slow.

“Well to be honest, I barely remember coming home at all.” He admitted sheepishly.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, swallowed, and blinked. Of course. Of course John didn’t remember any of that. Of fucking course John didn’t remember telling Sherlock how much he meant to him. _God,_ he’d been an _idiot_!

What other conclusion would John- stupid, blind John- have for the situation he’d woken up in?

Those three words.

Those three fucking words.

They mean nothing now.

Because John had said them all in a drunken haze.

Because Sherlock had been naïve enough to believe that he could finally be with John.

Sherlock’s chest felt uncomfortably tight. He couldn’t breathe. John was blabbering behind him, he couldn’t process any of it. All of it just faded to a dull buzz.

_“You have no idea what you do to me.”_

Did John mean any of that?

_“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this”_

It couldn’t all have been a lie. That would be far too cruel.

“Sherlock?”

Love is a dangerous disadvantage.

“You okay?”

Sentiment is a chemical defect…

“Hey-”

…found on the losing side.

“Sherlock- you’re scaring me a bit.”

Sherlock Holmes had lost.

He clutched the handle of the kettle, knuckles bleaching.

_You called me beautiful._

He turned around and let his gaze settle _anywhere_ except John’s eyes. There was a horrible churning sensation in his gut.

_Your fingerprints are on my hips._

Sherlock thought he was going to be sick. He should have known better, he should have been less careless and abstained from entertaining his desperate urges for affection, retreated into his bedroom as soon as he noticed John’s intoxication.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

“Come on Sherlock. Sit down, have some tea. You’re making me nervous.”

Finally, Sherlock risked a glance at John, who took no notice whatsoever as he busied himself with his breakfast.

_You told me you loved me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a vague outline for this fic but I'm still open to suggestions :)  
> As always, constructive criticism can save lives- no sugarcoating required, just honest, raw opinions. Point out any mistakes if you come across any.  
> Thank you for sticking with me.


	3. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know your hopes were probably up but this isn't an update (so sorry)

I just want to say thank you to anyone who still cares about this fic but I'm going to be honest: I really struggled with continuing this story. I've had no time to write lately and I keep thinking about everything that's wrong with the previous chapters and oof what a mess. Not really happy with what I've been writing and if I tried to rewrite chapter 3 one more time I think I'd have a breakdown.

I'm planning on doing a rewrite of this story as a whole which will be a lot easier to follow for where I want it to go. I feel like this fic just went from good-times-jealous-John and lots of smut to a LOT more angst than I thought there would be.

And since there was a surprisingly positive response to the previous chapters I've decided not to delete them. I'll keep them around for anyone who wants to revisit but I'm working on a (hopefully) better version, I promise.

Again, thank you all for the support, I hope you'll like what I'm brewing up for the future.

 

(also ignore the note at the bottom it keeps showing up and I don't know why)

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, okay so that was that.  
> Don't forget to critique!  
> If there is a high enough demand, I guess a second chapter could be whipped up.  
> Leave a kudo or a review for a poor ol'soul like me, won't'cha?


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